Cows in Action 2

by Steve Cole

  “I did a lovely job on those bandages,” she grumbled to herself. “And he’s just yanked them all off! Stupid bolshy bulls. What a waste!”

  “Sounds like Sheba knows more than she’s been letting on,” McMoo observed. “You and Bo get after her and find out what.”

  “Right you are, Prof,” said Bo. “Don’t worry, I’ll get the truth out of her. A left hook, a right jab and a super-squirt from my udder will have her talking in seconds!”

  “Or lying knocked out in a puddle of milk,” said Pat with a sigh. “What about you, Professor – what are you going to do?”

  “It looks like poor old Ramses has become an ex-pharaoh,” said McMoo, thoughtfully. “I’ll bet he could use a nice cup of tea – and I know that I could! I’ll take him back to his palace.”

  “We’ll report back as soon as we can,” Pat promised.

  As Pat and Bo hurried after Sheba, the chief of the Medjay looked worriedly at Professor McMoo. “I was going to take you to the pharaoh – but now I’m not sure which one!”

  “I want to see Ramses at once,” said McMoo. “He is the real ruler around here.”

  But by the look of the crowd, still going wild for Tutankha-moo, the professor was about the only one who thought so …

  *

  Pat and Bo followed Sheba through the backstreets of Edfu, a nearby town, all the way to a shabby, run-down embalming shop.

  Just outside, another woman called to her. “Oi! Sheba! Your Ron come home yet?”

  “No, he hasn’t!” Sheba complained. “My no-good husband’s been missing for weeks now, the lazy so-and-so.”

  “Quick!” said Pat. “While she’s busy gassing to her neighbour, let’s sneak into her store!”

  “We could smash the window,” Bo suggested, “and swing in commando-style on ropes. It’ll be awesome.”

  “Except that Egyptians didn’t have glass windows, and we don’t have any ropes,” Pat reminded her.

  “You always take the fun out of things,” Bo complained. “How about we just kick the door down instead?”

  But as they went round the back of the small, sandy shop, they found a door standing ajar – much to Bo’s disgust. She barged inside, and Pat nervously followed her.

  It was dusty and musty in the shop’s back room. The place was littered with badly stuffed animals – crocodiles, baboons, even a big dung beetle. The crocodile was so full of stuffing it looked more like a big green sausage. But a rat beside it had been so under-stuffed it resembled a prune with a tail. Some of the animals were halfway to becoming mummies, clumsily wrapped in dirty bandages.

  “A blind gibbon wearing boxing gloves would have done a better job,” said Bo.

  “But it wouldn’t earn as much,” said Pat, pulling out a box from beneath a grimy table. It was full of jewels, vases and little carved statues. “Look at this lot!”

  Bo picked up one of the statues. “Hey, I saw one just like this in Tooting Car Horn’s tomb. D’you think Sheba sneaked inside and stole it?”

  “Or perhaps she earned it,” said Pat. “Sheba did a good job getting all those people to wait outside that tomb at dawn.”

  Bo nodded slowly. “Without an audience, Tutankha-moo’s comeback would have fallen flatter than a pancake!”

  “And you can bet it wasn’t the gods who told her to gather those people together,” Pat went on. “It was the F.B.I.!”

  “Hey!” Bo sniffed the air. “Can you smell something a bit iffy?”

  Pat nodded. “Seems to be coming from that cupboard …”

  They advanced on an old cupboard in the corner of the room. Bo yanked open the door …

  Inside was a mummy!

  Bo almost launched into full-on karate-cow commando mode – but Pat stopped her just in time. “It’s OK,” he said. “It’s a real mummy. A human one, at that.” Jewels were glued all over the figure’s bandaged body. Its face had been painted gold and a large stripy headdress placed around the head.

  “Bit posh, isn’t it?” Bo remarked.

  “Holy haystacks,” breathed Pat. “Bo, what if this is the real Tutankhamen? His mummy wasn’t in its case, remember?”

  Bo nodded. “But how come he’s ended up in Sheba’s cupboard?”

  Before Pat could think of an answer, the back door opened – and Sheba Um-Barmer burst in.

  “What’s all this, then?” she shrieked, arming herself with a stuffed elephant’s trunk. Then, like a human tank, she charged towards them …

  Chapter Six

  BIG TROUBLE

  “What are you two doing in my shop?” Sheba growled, thwacking the elephant’s trunk against her palm like a truncheon.

  “Us three, you mean,” said Bo fiercely, standing protectively in front of Pat. “Me, my little brother – and Tooting Car Horn!”

  Sheba stopped dead in her tracks, her face darkening.

  Pat smiled grimly. “Yes, and I bet Pharaoh Ramses would be very interested to know about this – because if that’s the real mummy, it means that Tutankha-moo the moo-my is a big fat fake!”

  Sheba’s eyes narrowed. “Think you’re clever, don’t you?”

  “A bit,” Pat confessed. “But our friend Professor McMoo is really clever. He’ll soon sort you out – and your bull bosses!”

  “We’ll see about that,” snarled Sheba. With that, she raised the elephant’s trunk and bundled towards them.

  Swiftly, Bo grabbed the overstuffed crocodile and threw it in Sheba’s path. With a high-pitched URRK! Sheba tripped over it and hit the ground so hard that the whole room shook. Suddenly chunks of the stone ceiling started raining down around them.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Pat cried, jumping over Sheba’s bulky body and tumbling out through the doorway.

  “Oh, Pat! I was just warming up,” Bo complained. “Anyway, what about the mummy?”

  But then half of the ceiling gave way completely. With a moo of alarm, Bo scrambled out – just as the cupboard with the mummy inside was buried completely.

  Pat gulped. “There’s nothing we can do right now. We must get back to the professor and tell him what we’ve discovered – then come back with some digging tools.”

  “Hey,” said Bo. “What happened to Sheba?”

  Pat stared at the rubble. “She – she must have been squished in the cave-in!”

  But suddenly Sheba burst up from the ground like a giant balloon, covered in white dust. “My shop!” She shook her enormous fist at Pat and Bo. “I’ll get you for this – you and this professor friend of yours!”

  “Come on – run!” cried Pat, and Bo reluctantly charged after him through the sandy streets.

  Sheba waddled over to a stuffed trout half-buried in the rubble. Hidden beneath it was a magical device that let you speak to someone far away – her bosses called it a “mobile phone”. “Oh yes,” she breathed. “I’ll fix you lot good and proper – just you wait!”

  *

  Professor McMoo, meanwhile, had retired to the palace of ex-Pharaoh Ramses where he was enjoying a cup of Egyptian liquorice tea. He had to make it himself, because all Ramses’ servants and guards had gone off to work for Tutankha-moo instead.

  Ramses himself was looking very miserable. “To think,” he said with a sigh, “I have been replaced by a cow!”

  “Cheer up!” said McMoo. “At least you get to keep your palace.” Although that was only because Tutankha-moo had told the crowd that he would rule Egypt from the Great Pyramid at Giza, further up the River Nile.

  “The Medjay chief said he saw you work great magic,” said Ramses. “Will you use that magic to help me win back my throne and my people, Great Professor?”

  “Just Professor,” said McMoo. “And yes, of course I’ll help you. Because that talking bull is talking bull – he’s just an impostor up to no good. YOU are meant to rule Egypt, not him.”

  Then suddenly there was a commotion at the palace doors – shouting and banging and breathless moos.

  “Sounds like Pat and Bo,” said M
cMoo, jumping up. “Excuse me, Pharaoh!” He dashed to the door. As he opened it, his friends fell inside, puffed out and sweaty.

  “Sheba Um-Barmer has got Tutankhamen’s mummy in her cupboard,” panted Pat.

  “What?” McMoo spluttered.

  “She’s keeping it hidden,” Bo went on. “’Cause if pharaoh-face here went inside that open tomb and found the real mummy, he could prove the moo-my was an impostor.”

  “Hey, I told you that!” Pat protested.

  “So Sheba is working for the F.B.I.,” mused McMoo. “Of course! She’s an embalmer, she makes mummies. And they needed someone to wrap up their moo-my in the proper style so everyone would believe he was the real Tutankhamen – transformed into a cow.”

  Pharaoh Ramses swept into the entrance hall. “What is happening, Great Professor?”

  “My friends think they have found the real mummy of Tutankhamen,” McMoo explained. “I’m going to go with them to find it and bring it back here.”

  “We might need a shovel or two,” said Pat, his cheeks going red. “I’m afraid that Sheba’s house sort of … fell over!”

  “What?” McMoo looked accusingly at Bo. “All that’s left of the real Tutankhamen – a priceless piece of history – and you’ve buried it?”

  Bo grinned. “What are you going to do – tell mummy?”

  “Think he probably already knows!” said Pat. “Now come on, we must hurry—”

  “Not so fast,” came the angry voice of the Medjay chief as he stormed inside with four men. “We have had a complaint from a Mrs Um-Barmer in Edfu. She says you two hooligans made her house collapse.”

  “Only a little bit!” Bo protested.

  But the chief ignored her. “You are under arrest.”

  “Chief, have you gone bonkers?” cried Pharaoh Ramses. “The Great Professor here is a mighty magician with incredible powers!”

  “Ah, yes! I’m coming to him,” said the chief with a nasty smile. “You might be interested to know, I’ve spent all morning in a chariot with mighty King Tutankha-moo.”

  “Your private life is none of my business,” said McMoo politely.

  The chief scowled. “Me and the boys were taking him to his new home in the Great Pyramid at Giza. We told him about you on the way. And do you know what he told us?”

  “What a clever, dashing, sophisticated person I was?” said McMoo hopefully.

  “No. He said you were a trickster and a tomb robber – just as I thought in the first place,” said the chief. “He said the moon only vanished ’cause of something called an ‘eclipse’. And he ordered me to arrest all three of you – and then throw you to the hungriest crocodiles I can find.” The chief drew his sword and smiled nastily. “Come with me to meet your doom – and make it snappy!”

  Chapter Seven

  IN DE NILE

  “Crocodiles?” Pat felt his knees start to knock as the four burly Medjay guards surrounded them.

  “Couldn’t you throw us to some nice hungry hamsters instead?” said the professor, with a winning smile.

  “Bring on the crocs,” Bo jeered. “I’ll turn them into handbags before they can take a bite!”

  “We shall see,” said the chief. “Now move!”

  “Listen, matey,” boomed Ramses, making the four Medjay guards jump. “I’m the king round here and if anyone is throwing these tomb robbers to the crocodiles, it’s me!”

  “Pharaoh Ramses, how could you?” cried McMoo, looking hurt. “We’re trying to help!” But his words fell on deaf ears.

  “You are not the king any more, Ramses,” said the chief. “Tutankha-moo is our ruler now. And I’m afraid he wants me to confiscate all your belongings and take them to Giza.”

  “Ha,” Bo snorted. “Still, never mind, eh? The decorations here are a pile of pants – you won’t miss them!”

  Ramses looked like he was about to explode, but then seemed to recover himself. “Of course, I shall give all I have to Tutankha-moo. I want to help him all I can.” He smiled. “For instance, I know of a perfect spot to find very hungry crocodiles, not far from here.”

  “Really?” The chief smiled. “Very well. Take us there straight away.”

  The three C.I.A. agents were marched out at swordpoint. McMoo sighed. “Sorry about this, you two,” he said. “It seems I was wrong about Pharaoh Ramses being a great leader.”

  “A great twerp, more like,” said Pat.

  “Don’t worry, Pat,” said Bo. “Or you, Professor. I’ll look after you.”

  “Thanks, Bo.” McMoo smiled kindly. “I’m sure you will.”

  Pharaoh Ramses led them through his large, well-kept gardens and down to a grand little dock at the edge of a fast-flowing river.

  “Ooooh, look – it’s the Nile!” cried the professor. “Longest river in the world. Imagine that! It stretches on for over four thousand miles, goes through nine different countries—”

  “And it’s stuffed full of crocodiles,” said Pat miserably, pointing to a cluster of ugly green reptiles lurking by the riverbank. Each was as long as a sofa, with giant twitching jaws.

  “Oh. Oh dear.” McMoo sighed. “I’m afraid a painful, hideous death is on the cards for us.”

  “I usually like playing cards,” said Pat. He shuddered. “Everything except SNAP!”

  “Never mind the crocs. Look at that cool big ship,” said Bo, pointing to a very long, very grand boat that was moored to the dock by a thick rope. Its deckhouse was decorated blue and red and it had a gigantic billowing sail. “It’s well posh. Whose is it, then?”

  “That is my royal racing yacht,” Pharaoh Ramses informed her.

  “Not any more,” said the chief. “As of now, it’s Tutankha-moo’s.”

  “Well in that case, someone had better take it to him, hadn’t they?” said the pharaoh. And suddenly he shoved the chief with all his strength – down the bank and – SPLOOSH! – into the water.

  “Aaagh!” cried the chief as the crocodiles swam hungrily over. “Help!” The Medjay guards abandoned their prisoners and jumped into the water to save him.

  Pharaoh Ramses winked at Professor McMoo. “I was only pretending to go along with the chief,” he explained. “Now, you can take my yacht and escape!”

  “Cheers, Rammy-baby!” said Bo, blowing him a kiss. “You are a fair pharaoh after all!” She charged up the gangplank after Pat and McMoo. Once they were all on board the yacht, Pat chomped through the mooring ropes.

  “Don’t worry, Ramses,” McMoo called as he steered the yacht away. “We will travel south to Edfu, dig out Tutankhamen’s mummy, and bring it back here so you can prove to your kingdom that that cheeky bullock is an impostor!”

  “Um, Professor? We can’t go south,” said Bo, pointing behind him. “Look!”

  Pat gasped. “There’s a Medjay ship coming straight for us!”

  A long, narrow craft was approaching, rowed by fierce-looking guards.

  “There’s no escape,” the chief shouted as he struggled out of the water. “You see, I ordered more troops to come here by boat – I knew you’d give us trouble.”

  “That baby crocodile behind you will give you more than just trouble,” called McMoo.

  The chief scoffed. “You expect me to fall for that old one?” But a moment later, he came streaking out of the water with a small green croc attached to his bottom. “YEEOOOWW!” His guards flapped about trying to pull it off.

  Ramses waved to McMoo. “Row north, my friends. Perhaps you will be able to double back later.”

  “What about you?” Pat called. “You’ll be in trouble now too.”

  “I will lock myself in the royal toilet till you get back,” Ramses told them. “It’s solid gold, and I’ve got a good crossword to pass the time. Good luck!”

  “I think we’ll need it,” said Bo. “That Medjay ship is almost alongside us!”

  “Pick up an oar,” Pat urged her.

  “Good idea,” said Bo. She picked one up – and then lobbed it at the Medjay ship, kno
cking two guards into the water. “Direct hit!” she cried.

  “That wasn’t quite what I meant,” said Pat, slapping a hoof against his forehead. “How are we going to row now?”

  “There’s only one thing for it,” said Professor McMoo. “Bo – you’ll have to use udder-power!”

  “Woo-hoo!” yelled Bo, running to the back of the yacht. “I’ll give it a go, Professor!”

  Pat stared as she hung over the side and dipped her lower half in the water. “What’s she up to?”

  McMoo grinned. “She’s about to invent the outboard motor three thousand years early!”

  The Medjay boat had almost caught up with them. Some of the men were standing up and waving their swords.

  “Stand by for squirt-off,” Bo called. Then she squeezed her udder as hard as she could. A huge stream of milk jetted into the water – and started to propel them downstream.

  “Yee-haaa!” cried Pat as the yacht picked up speed.

  Startled fishermen stared from the riverbanks. Cargo-boat captains gasped in disbelief. Bo’s teats were like jets firing milk instead of flame, pushing the yacht along like a rocket. Soon the menacing Medjay ship had been left far, far behind.

  Bo grinned at McMoo and her brother. “Lucky I missed being milked this morning, eh?”

  “Too right,” said Pat. “At this rate we’ll be halfway to Giza in a couple of hours!” A worrying thought struck him. “Which means we’ll be slap bang in the middle of Tutankha-moo territory.”

  “And how will we ever get back to find the mummy?” asked Bo.

  “I don’t know,” said McMoo gravely. “But do you notice something?”

  Pat shook his head. “What?”

  The professor waved his hoof about. “There’s so much lush grazing land here beside the river – but no cattle to graze on it!”

  “Of course,” said Pat, a shiver tingling down his long backbone. “I remember now – the chief said that every single cow had disappeared, didn’t he?”

  Bo nodded. “But where to?”

  McMoo sighed crossly. “If only we knew what the F.B.I. is planning!”

  The river started to grow busier the further north they went. Little two-man boats, big trading ships, tiny rafts made from bundles of reeds, they all floated downriver in the bright sunshine. Pat and McMoo steered the royal yacht in and out of the Nile traffic but soon the river was just too clogged to keep going.